


Dirty Laundry

by mindy_makru_tutu



Category: Ashes to Ashes (UK TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Mutual Pining, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2019-09-21 15:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17046359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindy_makru_tutu/pseuds/mindy_makru_tutu
Summary: Post-ep for 1.06. Alex finds Gene’s doodle and has some fun with it (in more ways than one).





	Dirty Laundry

  
The van was her idea. The Quattro would be too distinct, too noticeable in that neighbourhood. Turning off the lights and the heat was also her idea. It’d give the game away, alert the target to their position. Which had left him camped in a freezing cold rust-bucket for four hours with a bossy cow who kept shifting her thinly encased bum on the vinyl bench and rubbing her fidgety arms until he finally gave up his coat. 

Just like a woman not to dress for the job. After all, what good was looking like sex on two legs if you were going to freeze to bloody death? An attractive corpse was no use to anyone, least of all to a criminal investigation. Which is what he was trying to conduct. Not a ruddy fashion show.

So he’d stripped off and thrown his coat at her, without any attempt at gallantry. Maybe covering her up would stop her moving about, fidgeting and shivering and squirming. Maybe it would also prevent his eyes from swinging sideways every few minutes, prevent her perfume from stealing up into his nostrils in the chilly, confined space.

It was hardly the first time he’d been trapped in a confined space with Alex Drake. He couldn’t decide if he was in love with the experience or in utter, dreaded hate. But, at least this time, he had an easy escape route. Grasping the door handle, Gene flung open the van door. The thing juddered outwards, undermining the effect of the exasperation and frustration he’d put into the gesture. Hopping from the van onto the pavement, he told her he’d go get them a brew to warm them up, keep them awake. The stakeout had already lasted longer than she’d promised him it would.

Alex smiled and thanked him, mistaking this move for that gallantry he was trying to avoid bestowing on her. He slammed the door on her smile. Or he would’ve if the rusty door had let him. Despite his strength, it slid feebly shut and popped back into place in the faded frame. The air outside was as cold as inside. But the night-time wind was brisk and bracing. It smelled of city and rubbish and the Indian joint down the street. Not of Alex Drake. Her clothes and her perfume and her hair and her flesh. The walk down the street and around the corner cleared his head. Refocused his mind on the investigation, the scumbag in his sights.

As he passed the squat green Toyota, he gave a deliberately obtrusive knock to the window. Chris grinned up at him and raised his radio to say he ready for the call. Ray nodded once and continued shovelling curry into his mouth in the misty warmth of their vehicle. Apparently it was okay for them to have heat because they were further from the target location. Lucky bastards. Gene sighed and headed into the twenty-four hour café to order two large, hot, strong teas, one with six sugars, one without.

It galled him slightly to order her tea, collect it, walk back with it burning through his leather glove. Fetching tea was woman’s work. He was The Guv, The Manc Lion. Not a bloomin’ tea lady. With any of the other members of his team, he wouldn’t even know how they took their tea, wouldn’t care neither. But with Drake, he noticed such things. He knew. Even if he sometimes stirred great lumps of sugar in it, just to see her wince in protest.

He took a deep breath as he approached the van. It was pale blue, with a washing machine and some suds fading away in the side design. It used to belong to a dry cleaning business before being snatched by Fenchurch East in a bungled blag. He placed the teas on the roof, yanked open the door – then paused. When he’d left her, she’d been lifting the binoculars to her eyes. But now her gaze was focused on a crumpled piece of paper. A piece of paper he’d forgotten about. A piece of paper he recognised. A piece of paper he cursed himself for not having destroyed when he had the chance.       

“Where’d you get that?”

Alex looked over at him, brows raised. “Your coat pocket.”

“Yes. Well.” His boots shifted on the pavement. “I confiscated it from one the lads. Dirty bugger.”

“Really.” She returned her gaze to the wrinkled slip, brows still arched upwards. “Because it looks to me like your penmanship.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He retrieved the styrofoam cups from the roof and shoved one at her. “S’obviously one of the boys havin’ a laugh at the expense o’ the bosses.” The van dipped as he stepped inside, settled into his seat and shut the door.

Alex blew on her tea, head tipped to one side as she studied the doodle. “Oh…is it meant to be us, do you think?”

“Well, that’s clearly you.” He sniffed and pointed. “And that _there_ , is me.”

“I don’t know…” She took a sip of her tea, murmured against the rim, “I can’t see myself ever letting you put me in that position.”

He pulled his suit jacket round his gut, adjusting his arse on the ripped vinyl. “Oh no?”

“No…” she mused mildly. “Never been a fan…”

He made a grab for the doodle. “Oright, you’ve ‘ad your fun.”

She drew it easy out of his reach. “As have you, it seems.”

He glowered at her. “ _Give_.”

She turned towards him on the low bench, her face morphing into an expression of exasperating understanding. “It’s perfectly normal.”

He turned to the door. “Right. I’m leavin’.”

“The relief team isn’t due for another hour,” she protested, all too rationally.

He flung an arm towards the street. “Then get the hell outta my motor.”

She glanced about with wide eyes. Skipping past the obvious fact they were not in his motor and he was clearly grasping at argumentative straws, Alex simply pointed out, “It’s cold out there.”

“Tough,” he grit, jaw jutted.

“Gene—” She leaned towards him, still trying to understand him, empathise with him.

He couldn’t stand it. He would not put up with it. He turned on her with narrowed, steeled eyes. “You know, it’s a pretty low act. Goin’ through someone’s rubbish, airin’ their dirty laundry for all to see.”

“I go through suspects’ rubbish,” she answered evenly, “not colleagues’.”

He grunted and looked away, glaring out the windscreen a moment or two. “Means nothin’— _less_ than nothin’.”

“I know,” she said, voice soft and smooth and sympathetic. “And like I said, it’s perfectly normal in a job where we’re all thrust…”

“Do not say ‘thrust’ to me right now.” He sipped his tea, spluttering to find he’d given her the sugared cup and left himself with the unsugared brew.

“...we’re all thrust together,” Alex went on, “into tight situations…”

“Or ‘tight’!”

“…at all hours of the day and night. It’s very hard not to—”

He ran a hand over his face. “Sweet, sufferin’ Jesus....”

She sighed and fell silent. Then opened her annoying mouth again. “Would it help,” she asked, halting momentarily only to mercilessly continue, “if I told you that….I had a dream about you once?”

“What, just the once?” he muttered, trying to reinstate his usual bravado. 

She paused again, took a breath, waved a hand. “You were….in my bed. Well, I didn’t know it was you at first.”

He sipped his tea, refused to look at her. “A lot of options, were there?”

“Then you, sort of…” she gestured again, a frown in her voice, “flung back the covers and turned towards me.” She lifted her tea to her lips but didn’t sip, adding pointedly, “Of course, both of us were fully clothed the entire time.”

“Blimey, Bols,” he stole her tea, switched it with his own, “That’s the dullest bloody fantasy I’ve ever heard in me life.”

“Well,” she lowered her gaze, looked into the depths of her new cup, “some fantasies are more about emotional subtext. Others…” she lifted his doodle, eyebrows re-arching, “focus on the physical.”

He sipped his brew, sighed audibly with the injection of sugar. “Ever ‘ave it again?”

“Once,” she admitted quietly. She glanced sideways at him, her breath emerging in heated, misty puffs. “And, I must say, I was still surprised to see you there. But also, sort of…relieved.”

He stared out the windscreen, cleared his throat. “I could, at this juncture, make a comment about other ways I could relieve you in bed. But, unlike the scum that drew _that_ ,” he leaned sideways, stabbed a finger at the penned impressions of the two of them, “ _I_ am a gentleman.”

He felt her smile more than saw it, felt the moment she silently acquiesced to his ruse. Well, almost acquiesced. Alex Drake wouldn’t be Alex Drake if she let him off the hook entirely.

“So,” she asked in a slightly sing-song, slightly testing tone, “do you want me to see he’s punished for producing such filth?”

“Don’t you think he’s been punished enough?” he mumbled into his cuppa.

Alex persisted, with the same part professional, part pretending tone. “We really shouldn’t let this sort of insubordination slide, you know. It’s a slippery slope.”

He finally looked at her, glared at her with all his inner might. “Quit sayin’ dirty words, you menace to public decency.”

She lifted a shoulder, “Anything can sound dirty if you’re—”

He leaned in. “Shut your cheeky gob, Drake.”

She smiled – bloody _smiled_ – right in his fuming face. She pressed her lips together to stop it but it did no good. It was there, and there was nothing he could do to stop her from enjoying herself at his expense. “Right…” she purred, eyes glittering darkly in the low light, “I’ll just hang onto this then. You know – as evidence. And if you decide you want the culprit….” she stalled deliberately, parted her lips as if searching for the right word, “ _exposed_ …you just let me know.” She folded the doodle in half then lifted her hips off the vinyl to slide it into the back pocket of her black jeans. “Trust me,” she said, grunting as she shoved it deeper, “I’ll give him a real tongue lashing.”

He watched her. She wanted him to. She was taunting him, baiting him, riling him. All of which had an oddly calming effect on him since his pride would never, ever, _ever_ let her see – let her know – that it worked. That she could win. That she had won. For now, anyway. His eyes skated down her body as she pocketed his improvised porn, as her thrust hips, her straining thighs lowered back to the seat. His eyes skated back up to her face as she re-blanketed herself in his coat, a smug little twist to her lips. He reached across her body, grabbing the binoculars from the far side of the bench. 

“A likely bloody story,” he muttered as he put them to his eyes. He checked the doorstep of the residence, his shoulder pressed to hers as he peered out her window. “Think we both know what’ll be filling’ your dreams tonight.” Without pulling back, he lowered the binoculars and looked at her. “Don’t we, Bolly-Knickers?”

The corners of her mouth twitched, her gaze lowered to his mouth. And when she spoke, her voice was huskier and deeper than normal. “Oh, without a doubt, Guv.”

He passed her the binoculars, didn’t drop her gaze as he asked, “Fancy a spot of police work in the meantime?”

Alex frowned in confusion then started as her radio fuzzed loudly. He was already out the door as she was turning to spot their approaching suspect. He threw his tea into the gutter as she radioed Ray and Chris. Then, ditching radio, binoculars and cuppa, she followed him across the street at a run.        
  


* * *

  
She didn’t get home for another three hours, by which time she’d forgotten about Gene’s pornographic sketch, about their conversation in the chilly, rusty van. She hung her white jacket by the door, pulled off her boots on the way to the bathroom. Her blouse landed on the threshold, her beads on the basin. She sighed as she shimmied out of her tight pants. But stopped to retrieve the crumpled piece of paper peeking out of the back pocket. 

She smiled as she opened it again. Multiple folds and scrunches had faded some of the ink-strokes but the basic scenario was still blatantly clear. The artistic skill was no better than the average teenage boy could boast. The grasp of the female anatomy – and the sex act in general – was about as advanced. And yet, something about the scenario intrigued her. It was possibly just the lingering thrill from that moment she bent over a desk and hitched up her skirt for him. Just a little unreleased tension from feeling his gaze, his fingers on the flesh of her arse as she waited for his stamp of authorisation to descend.

She hadn’t lied to him in the van. She’d never really enjoyed the position. It wasn’t one with which she had a great deal of experience. Pete was a lazy lover, preferring to lie on his back while she did all the work. She’d dated a few men after him, widened her sexual repertoire a little with each. It kept her entertained, since most of these men were deathly dull. One had liked to take her from behind. But it never felt quite like she wanted it to. Rather than primal and sensual, it just felt uncomfortable and aloof.

Placing the doodle on the basin, she smoothed out the creases before planting her hands either side of it. She looked up, met her own eyes in the mirror. She couldn’t imagine Gene being aloof with her, not with her nearly naked body bent over his desk. If his gaze was anything to go by, he’d be the most avid, absorbed, exhaustive lover she’d ever experienced in her pleasant but average sex-life. His hands would be all over her, she was sure of it. Just like his eyes were, every single day. He’d notice everything, every curve, every valley. And tell her, without fear or censorship, just what they did to him.

She leaned closer to the mirror, took her weight onto her hands, let her breath mist the mirror. Her eyes roamed down over her reflection, over her breasts in her bra, over her naked waist and stomach, down to where her underpants hugged her hips. She could almost see his hand curl over one hip, snake between her legs and cup her. Long, large fingers tasting her warmth, teasing her into readiness. He’d touch her over the silk first. But he wouldn’t resist for long. He’d slip his hand inside, groaning to find her welcomingly slippery. He’d bury his nose in her hair, kiss behind her ear as he drew her hips backwards, gently lifting her by her cunt and tucking her arse into his groin. He’d rub himself against her, breathe against the back of her neck, call her _Bolly_. Call her _lovely_ , call her _delicious_.    

Bit by bit, he’d coax her downwards, mould her into that position she didn’t care for. And she’d let him. She’d be flushed and sweating and willing, hoping he could make her want it. Hoping he could redeem it for her, take her to her most primal and sensual limit. And when he had her right where he wanted her, he’d run his hands, both of them, warm and slow and savouring, from her arse, down her thighs, as far as he could reach. Then up again they would roam, over her arse, up her back, into her waist, over her shoulders and into her hair. Covering all of her, never touching the same place twice. She’d toss back her head and tell him to take her.

And he would. Gene Hunt would take her from behind and she’d love every second of it.  
  


* * *

  
Luigi was bloody at him again. Telling him he was pathetic. He had no passion. No imagination. No seduction skills. Meanwhile, the bastard wouldn’t fill up his empty glass. No food, no booze. A lecture was all he was getting. And paying for the pleasure on top of it. Protected by the bar, the man paced one way, whiskey bottle in hand, then paced back the other way. 

Gene made a grab for the bottle, but missed. “I could show you passion,” he fumed, perched aloft on his stool. “I could show you imagination, you mouthy Italian greaseball! And _as for seduction_ —”  

“Do _not_ show _me_ ,” Luigi pronounced, turning to face him. “Show the lovely, lonely signorina up the stairs.”

Gene opened his mouth then dropped back in his seat. It was not a bad suggestion. Drake drank like a fish. She’d probably have a bottle or two squirrelled away up there. He slid from his stool and made for the stairs with Luigi spouting rapturous phrases of Italian behind his back. Presumably wishing him luck and celebrating the impending love-making of him and his batty DI.

“Shut up!” he yelled as he began to ascend the stairs.

He slopped upwards, feet weary on the ends of his legs and mouth muttering about whiskey and old age and the bloody, blasted female sex. Reaching the landing, he raised a hand to knock. But stopped when he heard a cry – sharp, throaty and high-pitched. Then another. And a third. His first impulse was to knock the door down and make sure Alex was okay. Something more primal interceded. If he knew anything, he knew a cry of distress from a cry of ecstasy. And _that_ had _not_ been a cry of distress. Nor had it been a cry of minor, mundane ecstasy. That was ecstasy of a particularly potent variety. Ecstasy that was long-waited. Ecstasy that astounded, gratified and pleasured. Ecstasy, he was happy know, having entered the closed restaurant with her, that could not have been delivered by any man. 

He was almost tempted to knock anyway. To see the mess of her hair, the flush of her cheeks. To see her clothes messily righted and her lips stumbling over an excuse. It would be glorious, he just knew it. She would be. What a picture she’d make. What a picture to ponder. Lowering his fist, he wrapped the image up to take home with him and headed back down the stairs with a soft tread. When he reached the bottom, Luigi started in on him again. No passion. No imagination. Blah, blah, blah. All interspersed with disappointed, emphatic Italian.

“Changed me mind,” was all he said as he headed out the door of the trattoria.

Drink was the last thing on his mind now. He had his own ecstasy to pursue.  
  


* * *

  
She panted heavily, cheek pressed to the mangled doodle. She drew her hand out of her underwear, slowly righting herself. She gazed at her reflection – her mottled pink skin, swollen lips, tossed curls. Rolling her eyes at herself, she stripped away the final scraps of her clothing and tossed them in the laundry hamper. Then, avoiding eye contact with her judgemental reflection, Alex stepped into the shower to wash away the evidence. 

_END._

For the rest of my Ashes fic, go [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/812100/Mindy35).


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